


The Shape of Energy

by jedihbic



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Cold War, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Evil Snoke, F/M, Government Experimentation, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo is not a fish man, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Finn, Slow Burn, The Force, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedihbic/pseuds/jedihbic
Summary: Rey Kanata works as a cleaning lady in a high-security government laboratory located in Takodana, Washington during the height of the Cold War. The facility harbors a dangerous creature, and Colonel Snoke plans to exploit it to American advantage in the Space Race. As Rey develops an unexpected bond with this creature, she soon learns that its fate and very survival lies in the hands of a hostile government agent, and she becomes determined to save it.This story is based on "The Shape of Water" by Guillermo del Toro.





	1. February in Washington

_**February 14th, 1966** _

 

February in Washington is miserable.

The ground is either coated in mounds of snow or puddles of rain, and sun is merely a pipe dream. The weathermen craft false promises over the radio; “Clear skies and a temperature of sixty degrees,” they’ll predict cheerily, as if their audience is stupid enough to believe that.

Today, mother nature chooses to displease the inhabitants of Takodana with a torrential downpour. This type of weather is especially unpleasant for those who occupy the jerry-built apartment buildings on Mid Rim Road, a sector of Takodana constructed for the penniless.

Rainwater seeps through the cheapjack roof of Rey Kanata’s apartment, soiling her furniture and her carpet. She hurriedly deposits large bowls on the floor, positioning them so that they may catch the drops. The torrents of water pouring from the sky saturate her ceiling at a quicker pace, however, and she can barely keep up with all of the drips and drops.

“Poe!” she calls, scurrying out of her apartment barefoot.

She smacks her palm against the unstable door of her neighbor’s apartment, which is adjacent to hers.

“Poe, wake up!” she shouts from the hallway.

A minute or two passes before a groggy thirty-two-year-old hobbles his way to the door and opens it wide, rubbing his eyes before taking in the figure of the woman waiting to greet him.

“What?” he asks, exasperated.

Rey peers over his shoulder and notices the streams of water pouring from his ceiling.

“It’s raining again,” she says simply.

He replies with, “I’m well aware,” and then stumbles to his couch, leaving the door ajar.

Rey mutters a series of four-letter-words and invites herself in, scampering to the kitchen pantry to collect pots and pans worthy of catching the water. Her indifferent neighbor kicks his feet up on the drenched coffee table and stretches his legs forward, using his toe to turn on the shoddy television. The face of Lucille Ball appears on the small screen, and Poe smiles to himself.

“Love this show,” he says to no one in particular.

“Poe,” Rey ignores his statement, setting down the last pot, “I need you to keep my apartment dry to the best of your ability today, okay? Check every hour or so to see if one of the bowls has overflown, and… are you listening to me?”

Poe nods absentmindedly, and Rey nearly chews him out for his spaceyness, but the threat of being late for work keeps her from doing so. She hurries back into her own apartment and makes a beeline for the refrigerator, patching together a meal for later.

“Don’t forget to pick up a slice of lemon meringue pie on the way home,” he calls after her. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Rey rolls her eyes.

In a flimsy, brown paper bag, she packs two slices of polystarch, a can of veg-meat, and some cashews. With Rey’s hefty appetite, it’s hardly a satisfying lunch, but it’s necessary to ration her groceries; she’s bashfully impoverished and accepts no handouts whatsoever.

Midday meal in hand, she slips on her shoes and rain poncho, and heads towards the fire exit of the apartment complex, praying that Poe will do as she’s asked. She skitters down the metal steps of the fire escape two at a time, and then breaks into a full sprint upon reaching the bottom, racing toward the bus stop in the pouring rain.

—————————

The First Order facility is unpleasant, to say the very least; though, it’s exactly what one would expect a government facility operating sub rosa to be like. The establishment itself is an amalgam of narrow hallways, muted colors, and suspicious men in suspicious lab coats.

Every agent looks unsettlingly similar, too. And not in a kinda-sorta way; in an almost-too-similar-to-be-a-coincidence way. They’re all bland, white, middle-aged men rushing around with briefcases, doing paperwork and opening locked doors with special keys.

If one were to look past the beady-eyed, clone-like officials and the facility’s obvious lack of beauty, perhaps they’d notice the odd cluster of social lepers hidden away in the background; men and women sporting off-white scrubs stand in a neat line, waiting to clock in—they’re the cleaners, and, to the facility’s distinguished agents, they are insignificant.

Rey arrives late, and she silently curses her ramshackle apartment for holding her up. She observes the line with a frustrated gaze, her neck craning to see how far back it extends.

 _I’ll be waiting here for an eternity_ , she thinks to herself, crossing her fingers in hopes that they don’t deduct a tremendous amount from her paycheck over this one mistake.

As she’s about to trudge her way to the back of this never-ending lineup, a savior calls out to her.

“Rey!” she hears her disgruntled angel shout. “Where’s your head at, woman?”

Rey turns, a smile on her face, and locates the man standing at the very front of the queue. A time card in hand, Finn stands with his arms crossed, looking irritated as ever. He waves her over, and she reacts to this gesticulation by hurrying towards him. A series of objections emit from the employees standing in line as Rey makes her way past them. It’s not fair to hop the line, but neither Rey nor Finn care.

She says nothing as she happily snatches the time card from his hand, but Finn sure has a mouthful for her.

“D’you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?” he asks rhetorically. “Hurry up and punch that card, it’s 5:59.”

Rey does so just as the clock strikes six, prompting the row of irate workers to curse at the two of them. She and Finn step away from the line, heading to procure a cleaning cart so that they may go about doing their daily tasks. He chastises her some more, but eventually he grows tired and changes the subject to something he never tires of complaining about; Washington weather.

“Clear skies and a temperature of sixty degrees my ass,” jokes Finn, and Rey laughs. “I almost drowned trying to get in my car this morning.”

“Who do they think they’re fooling?” contributes Rey.

“No soul in Takodana is gonna believe we’ve got clear skies headed our way in the middle of February.”

“I’m just worried about my apartment,” admits Rey. “One of these days, it’s going to rain, and it’ll flood beyond repair.”

“Well, you know, if that ever does happen, you can always hole up in our guest room. Rose’d be more than happy to have you,” he tells her, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “And, y’know, so would I.”

Rey beams, and she thanks him by poking at his cheek and jokingly aww-ing, “You _do_ like me!”

Finn has been to Rey’s shithole apartment exactly once, and that, according to him, is one time too many. He despises the thought of Rey living in the slums of Takodana, and he’s tried to convince her several times to consider staying with him and his wife, at least until she found somewhere safer to stay.

The Tico family resides in a teensy, harborside cottage on the outskirts of town, closer to Nymeve Lake than Rey could ever dream of being. They’re not rich—Finn makes the same amount that Rey does, if only a penny or two more—but they’re comfortable, which is the best thing to be.

“We’ve got a massive workload today,” Finn sighs, peering at the agenda listed near the cleaning carts. “These agents are filthy. We just scrubbed the bathrooms yesterday, and they’ve already gone and dirtied them up again.”

Rey and Finn select a cart and begin wheeling it down the poorly-lit hallways of the facility, heading towards the restroom facilities with a half-empty bottle of Jeyes Fluid and their stained rags.

⸻⸻⸻

Hours pass before Rey is finished slaving away at the laboratory. Finn offers, as always, to give her a lift home in his beat up, moss-colored station wagon, but Rey declines, as always, claiming that her daily ride home on the public bus gives her time to think.

Truthfully, she’s got somewhere to be on a Monday afternoon, and she considers it a weekly obligation. It’s something she’d prefer to keep from Finn, no matter how wrong it feels to hide things from him.

Bounding up the cobblestone steps, Rey reaches the front entrance of an establishment that she’d rather not be seen entering, and she looks to her right, gazing at the signboard. It reads “Fett’s Investigation Agency.”

Hurriedly, she pulls on the door handle and steps inside, the chime of a bell alerting Fett’s secretary of her arrival. Recognizing Rey as a frequent visitor, the woman says nothing as she gestures towards the door of Mr. Fett’s office, indicating that Rey is free to enter.

Rey tries not to make eye contact with any of the clients confined to the waiting room; she’d done it once before, and she realized her mistake when the crowd of surly-looking individuals began staring right back at her with a variety of unpleasant expressions.

She paces towards the entrance to Fett’s office, and, rather than knock, she simply turns the knob and steps right inside.

If those residing in a more moneyed region of Takodana were to catch sight of Fett’s palatial office, they’d surely think he’s one of those entrepreneurs that built themselves up from nothing—“But look at you now!” Rey can imagine any aristocratic idiot saying.  

Those from the poverty-stricken neighborhoods, though, are wiser. Fett planted this establishment on Skid Row because the services he offers aren’t exactly appealing to all-American, white-picket-fence families; he needs delinquents, druggies, and ex-cons in his lobby, not jolly apple-pie-eaters.

“Rey Kanata,” Mr. Fett addresses her, gesturing for her to take a seat. “Is it Monday already? The weekend flew by rather quickly.”

“It did,” she responds simply, unsettled by his presence.

Mr. Fett has this unnerving quality about him where you can’t quite tell what he’s feeling. He wears an unchanging expression, and he never smiles, nor does he frown.

“I’ve got a multitude of impatient clients in my waiting room at the moment, so let’s pretend that you and I engaged in several minutes worth of small-talk already, and now it’s time to get down to business,” he says concisely. “There’s nothing worth mentioning yet, Miss Kanata.”

Rey’s head lowers in disappointment. “Nothing?”

“I’m doing my best,” he informs her. “However, I can’t help but notice that your abandonment was almost tactical.”

Rey doesn’t like the sound of that, so she defensively manages, “Meaning what?”

Mr. Fett responds, “The time, the place… it was all rather strategic. Ultimately, I believe neither your father nor mother wishes for you to find them. That makes this process a whole lot harder, and I may be required to ask for more compensation.”

Rey attempts to keep the anger out of her voice when she incredulously says, “You want more? I’ve given you everything I have!”

“If you’re unable to afford my services, I’d rather you tell me now. It will get somewhat ugly if, further along the road, you go broke and I am left with no reward,” Mr. Fett states lowly.

“But—” begins Rey.

“Miss Kanata,” he addresses her once more, “I run a lawless firm, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. Human incantations of trash stride through my door and they say, ‘Mr. Fett, I have a man I need taken care of,’ and I say, ‘How much are you willing to pay?’ because that’s the kind of man I am. I haven’t the time to negotiate cost with a sad orphan. I have much more pressing matters to worry about than losing your business, so tell me: will I be receiving the payment necessary to continue with this case?”

Rey’s lip trembles, and she looks to the floor. She can’t exactly say yes because she doesn’t have the money. If she says no, though, he’ll scrap the case, and then she’ll have to start all the way back at square one.

Refusing to answer the question, she does what any mature, decisive adult would do: she avoids the conversation, rising from her seat and turning to exit his office without another word.

 _I’ll get that money_ , she thinks to herself, determined. _Somehow, I’ll get it. ‘Cause, if I don’t…_

If she doesn’t, she’ll wake up in the morning, and then she’ll take a bath, and then she’ll head off to work, and then she’ll clean the facility, and then she’ll pick up lemon meringue pie for Poe on her way back to the apartment, and then she’ll fall asleep to the sound of roaches gnawing on her furniture—and then, when she wakes up the next morning, she’ll do it all over again, just as she’s done every day for the past few years. It’s like watching a rerun of an uneventful television program every day without fail.

Rey _needs_ to figure out how to acquire more money so that she can locate her parents. Once she does, this tedious way of life will be behind her, and she’ll finally be comfortable, which is the best thing a person can be.

 _But, first,_ thinks Rey, prioritizing, _I’ve got to stop off at Mos Eisley’s Diner._

She mustn't forget Poe’s pie.


	2. Big Dogs and Glass Wax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An odd rumor is being spread around the facility, and Rey can't help but to be curious.

**_February 15th, 1966_ **

 

The Devil is coming to Washington, or so everyone’s been saying.

The rumors began with two cleaners who’d apparently heard everything from Colonel Snoke and Dr. Hunt themselves, as if the two esteemed men had time to explain their tactics to a select group of underpaid, low-grade custodians.

Men and women in white uniforms gather around the unclaimed cleaning carts—Rey and Finn being present as well—and they listen to two ladies speak on the matter.

“Dr. Hunt was talking ‘bout it,” claims the self-effacing one, Kaydel Connix. “Supposed to be some kind of weapon. He called it ‘a weapon of mass destruction,’ or somethin’.”

The man standing directly beside Rey, Mr. Kessix, uneasily inquires, “A weapon of mass destruction? Like a bomb?”

The second woman, Jessika Pava, corrects him and says, “No, no, it’s a _thing;_ it’s a living, breathing creature, unseen by man’s eye until now.”

Finn leans down to whisper, “She’s psychotic,” in Rey’s ear, and Rey stifles a laugh.

“The things it can do… oh, Lord,” Jessika shudders theatrically. “We overheard Snoke sayin’ that it can topple buildings with its mind! And he said it could kill any of us with just the flick of its finger!”

“Like the Devil,” Kaydel adds, directing her gaze to the floor, appearing tense.

“Well, when the Devil gets here, what do you say we give him a fruit basket for all his troubles?” Finn jests as he and Rey step forward, pushing past the two ladies so that they may claim a cleaning cart.

“That’s a great idea,” Rey contributes with a grin. “After all, it’s no good being locked up in a place like this without a friend.”

Jessika is unhappy about the mockery that’s being made of her obviously-falsified story, so she crosses her arms and lets out a sound of indignation.

“You don’t have to believe us,” Kaydel says nonchalantly. “Just don’t go talking ‘bout it in front of the suits. It’s all very classified.”

“I’m sure it is,” Finn snorts, and he tugs on Rey’s sleeve, which is a signal for her to follow him.

The pair departs from Loonville, withdrawing from Miss Connix, Miss Pava, and anyone odd enough to give credence to their fabricated story.

—————————

Hours later, Rey and Finn dedicate their time to cleaning the men’s facilities for the third time this week. First Order agents may give off an aura of decency and cleanliness, but they’re covertly dirty creatures; one should expect more nattiness from zoo animals.

Finn scrubs the back of a stall door with a filthy cloth, whistling Carla Thomas at an ear-splitting pitch. He pays no mind to Rey, who sits lazily on the counter, distracted by her thoughts.

She enjoys cynically tearing apart Miss Pava’s story as much as the next person, but… she can’t help herself. A small part of her entertains the idea, and she attempts to picture the alleged monster as she coats the bathroom mirrors with Glass Wax.

 _It’s powerful, I bet,_ she thinks decisively. _And it’s got glowing, sulfuric, yellow eyes, too._

The beast she imagines is hideous; its skin is mottled, and grey, and utterly devoid of any lively color. It’s got swollen veins marring its face, protruding in the most disgusting way. Those luminous eyes that she pictures are surrounded by a dark, sunken-in patch of skin. It’s horrifying.

She wonders just how big it’d be, though. It’s not real of course, but… would it be huge, or simply man-sized?

“Do you think it’s big?” she wonders aloud, and then, to clarify, she adds, “The creature, I mean.”

Finn emerges from behind the stall door almost instantly, exhaling in an irritated sort of way. He gives her a look, and Rey laughs, chucking her rag at him.

“I’m just wondering if it _would_ be… y’know, if it were real,” she states.

“It’s not,” he says, attempting to hide a smile as he feigns annoyance.

“I know that!” she defends herself. “But _if_ there were some dangerous creature headed our way right this second, would it be big, or small, or human-sized?”

Finn is silent for a moment, and Rey begins to doubt that he’ll play along, but then he speaks.

“Huge, I bet. Taller than the ceiling,” he says, raising his hands above his head so that Rey may picture the height of the beast he imagines. “And it’d be covered in fur, like a grizzly. But it wouldn’t look like a grizzly. It’d look like… a giant dog walking on two legs.”

As his imagination runs rampant, Rey dissolves into laughter. She tries to visualize a hulkish dog hunched over as it walks through the halls of the facility, growling and groaning at any passerby in the way that dogs sometimes do.

She’s about to share her own image of the beast, but an agent swings open the door and steps inside the restroom, plodding towards the urinals gracelessly. Rey hurriedly slides off the counter and continues to apply the Glass Wax while standing. She and Finn return to their work without another word, remaining silent until the intruder has finished his business.

Finn resumes whistling that same Carla Thomas tune, and Rey swallows another fit of laughter as the picture of the dog worms its way back into her mind. The monster she designed in her head is much more realistic than Finn’s.

 _It’d be man-sized_ , she thinks conclusively. _If it were real, which it obviously, probably isn’t… I think._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely short chapter, but it took me forever to finish for some reason.
> 
> (Rey's monster is meant to be a Sith, and Finn's is meant to be Chewbacca.)


	3. I Dream of Martians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey delivers Poe's pie, and she can't keep her mind off the alleged creature.

**_February 16th, 1966_ **

 

Rey lingers on the corner of Chalmun Street, a carefully-boxed slice of lemon meringue pie in her hands. She watches the city bus come barreling down the road, blowing through both a stop sign and a red light before coming to a halt right in front of the sidewalk. The driver tugs a lever, and the doors scrape open for her.

She steps onto the bus and attempts to fish a dime from her pocket, hurling the coin at the morose driver. She bounds toward the very back of the bus, selecting a seat far away from the other tired riders, and then she sets down the box of pie, careful not to tip it one way or the other. Poe is very picky, and a damaged slice will leave him grouchy for hours, so she must be careful when handling his food.

Rey plucks the hat from the top of her head, presses it to the window, and leans forward so that she may rest her cheek against it. Closing her eyes, she makes an attempt to ignore the bumpiness of the ride, and she allows her mind to drift elsewhere.

The very first thing that comes to mind is the alleged creature.

Yesterday, the rumors spread among the help like wildfire, and every cleaner had their own ideas about whether the information was credible or not. Earlier today, though, it wasn’t treated as a rumor or speculation; it was fact. Nothing was confirmed by Colonel Snoke or any of the other government officials, but the cleaners were one-hundred-percent sure that the facility would be harboring a monster soon enough.

Finn is utterly irritated by the fact that everyone seems to blindly trust Miss Connix and Miss Pava’s story, so Rey has neglected to bring it up since their discussion in the bathroom yesterday. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about it, though. How could she not?

Truthfully, Rey took several bathroom breaks earlier, which were not bathroom breaks at all. She’d tell Finn she needed to use the restroom, and then she’d sneak off to visit the boiler room, which happens to be quite the hot spot among lazy cleaners. The boiler room is where one goes when they haven’t the energy to do their job, but they don’t want to be caught lollygagging by the suits.

It was positively brimming with white-clothed figures, and the majority of them held a lit cigarette in between their fingers. The room was foggier than a bathroom mirror after a long, hot shower, and Rey coughed violently at the musty scent.

There had been a purpose for her visits, and it certainly wasn’t to dawdle and smoke. She was teeming with unanswered questions, and, though ridiculous, she figured Kaydel and Jessika would be more than happy to answer them.

Upon locating the two near the back during the fourth visit, she approached them and, without a greeting, began firing questions at them. “What kind of creature?” and “When is it arriving?” and “Why does the government want it?” to name a few.

Their answers were less than satisfactory. “We don’t know,” and “No one knows” and “Why do you care?” to name a few.

Rey was frustrated, to say the least.

And, hey, it’s probably not true. Most likely, the two girls overheard a private conversation between Colonel Snoke and Dr. Hunt, and they dramatized every detail. This devilish monster the girls speak of could very well be a chimpanzee, or a guinea pig, or some other animal that Dr. Hunt chooses to experiment on.

There’s an odd, curious part of her that’s still pushing for more information, though. Whether it be true or not, someone must have something to say that will satiate her curiosity. And Finn _cannot_ find out about her little quest down to the boiler room, lest she wishes to be made fun of for weeks; the mocking would be lighthearted because Finn loves her, but still…

Rey’s head bounces against the window as the bus makes an abrupt stop—no less abrupt than all the other stops along the way—and she opens her eyes. This is her stop.

She gathers the pie and trudges towards the front of the shuttle bus, yawning.

“Thank you,” she calls to the bus driver before stepping off.

The second she steps onto the sidewalk, her attention is drawn to the only thing worth looking at on Mid Rim Road. Below the third-rate apartment complex she and Poe are unfortunate enough to reside in, there is a cinema. The marquee out front is the only source of light on the block, due to the fact that all of the street lamps have burnt out and no one has complained enough for them to be repaired.

Rey gazes dreamily at the establishment as she walks closer to it.

The rooms may be too small to fit a decent crowd of moviegoers, and the paint may peel from the walls on occasion, but Rey loves it, and it has no business being located in such a pauperized region of town.

The short, white-haired German who owns the theater, Mr. Oz, is a bit of a loon. Sometimes, he talks backwards, beginning with the end of his sentence and finishing with the start. Other times, he’ll just hobble around with his cane, muttering to himself and emitting strange noises.

When it comes to films, he’s got a thing for the classics, so he rarely plays new releases, which is part of why business is so bad. Rey peers up, and, sure enough, the signboard reads “ _Creature from the Black Lagoon,_ ” which came out more than ten years ago. The man must have something against new-age movies.

Rey would love nothing more than to stop by and talk to the old man, but she’s exhausted, and she still has to deliver the pie to her friend waiting upstairs.

Entering the apartment complex, she ascends the stairs until she reaches the second floor. She raps her knuckles against his door, but only manages a single knock before the door swings open at breakneck speed. Poe snatches the box from her grasp, already holding a fork.

“You’re my savior,” he praises her as he flips open the lid of the box, admiring the slice. “I’m starved.”

Poe rushes to the living room with the box of pie in hand, muttering something about missing the newest episode of _I Dream of Jeannie._ Rey shrugs off her jacket and joins him on the couch, plopping down on the cushion. She listens to the mix of Barbara Eden’s televised voice and Poe’s hideous chewing noises.

“I don’t know how you eat that every day,” states Rey, trying not to grin as she watches the man shamelessly devour the dessert. “I’d get sick of it.”

“You don’t appreciate pie enough,” he tells her, eyes fixed on the television. “There’s a reason it’s the most expensive slice at Mos Eisley’s. It’s ‘cause it’s gourmet.”

The slice of pie that Poe is currently wolfing down costs almost an entire dollar at Mos Eisley’s Diner. Rey’s weekly paychecks are worth a dollar and twenty-five cents; so, essentially, Poe is eating about four-fifths of her weekly salary.

“Mm, oh!” he perks up as if he’s forgotten something, and then reaches into his pocket to obtain a dollar bill, holding it out to Rey so that she can pluck it from his fingers. “Keep the change.”

Rey has a sneaking suspicion that there’s more to this daily exchange than Poe says. She often wonders if he commissions her to deliver the food so that he can throw extra coins her way. The thought of accepting handouts from one of her closest friends makes her itch with discomfort, and she pushes the thought aside, embarrassed. Finn already treats her like a charity case on occasion, and she doesn’t need to worry about Poe doing it, too.

Rey shakes the thought from her mind completely, and she begins to peer around his living room, examining his personal effects. Her eyes flicker towards the dusty window treatments, and then the stack of untouched self-improvement paperbacks, and then the smoking ashtray located on the end table, until she finally finds something interesting enough to hold her attention: a framed photo.

The photograph was taken years ago, and Poe looked to be in his early twenties at the time. He was standing next to a man that Poe often referred to as “Ackbar.”

Several months ago, Poe decided that Rey was his closest friend, and, because of that, he also decided that she ought to know more about him. So, he invited her over one day, and he offered to tell her anything she wanted to know.

From what she gathered, Poe was a hotshot pilot about ten years ago—one of the very best. He transported John Wayne, Doris Day, and other Hollywood elitists to their destination on some crackerjack jet. That is, until his copilot, Ackbar, caught Poe and a male flight attendant having a quickie in the bathroom. Word spread fast and, though Poe was lucky enough not to be charged with gross indecency, he lost his prestigious job and was blacklisted. Even now, ten years later, it seems everyone in the business knows about Poe enough to turn him away before he can even ask to fill out a job application.

Rey gives Poe a sad look, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So,” he begins, talking around a mouthful of food, “anything new with this made-up monster? Got an estimated time of arrival, or anything?”

Kicking her feet up on Poe’s wobbly, three-legged coffee table, Rey huffs out a defeated, “Nope.”

“What is it supposed to be again?” he inquires.

“No one knows. It’s a complete mystery,” Rey tells him, wiggling her fingers while ooh-ing spookily.

Poe chuckles and sets his now-empty pie box on the table, kicking his feet up so that they’re positioned directly beside Rey’s.

“It’s probably an alien,” he suggests casually, and, upon noticing that Rey has begun to wonder, he adds, “My God, Rey, I’m kidding!”

“Well, I’m open-minded!” she defends herself, smacking his shoulder as he laughs. “Besides, Jessika did say that its abilities are... inhuman. We could very well be facing some bug-eyed martian.”

“I doubt it,” is all he says before turning his attention back to the television.

“Y’know, Finn thinks it’s a giant dog,” she informs Poe, “but that’s ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than an alien?” he mocks her, and Rey swats at his arm once more, prompting him to laugh.

About an hour later, Rey is cuddled up against Poe’s side, utterly exhausted. She feels Poe spread a cotton blanket over top of her body as her eyes droop shut, and then she dozes off while thinking about the feasibility of government-funded martian experimentation.


	4. The Devil Has Arrived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The asset has arrived, and Rey is too curious for her own good.

**_February 17th, 1966_ **

 

 _Something is happening_ , Rey notices the second she steps into the First Order facility. She shrugs off her drenched raincoat and folds it across her arm as she examines the atrium.

The hustle and bustle is amplified. Government officials speak loudly and urgently to one another as agents type swiftly on their typewriters. Everyone seems to be in a panic.

Several agents bump into her as she makes her way to the long line of cleaners, and they offer no apology as they rush away, gripping important documents and manuscripts. Rey makes an exasperated sound upon finally reaching the line, and, spotting Finn, she trudges towards him, a look of irritation painted on her face.

“What the hell is going on?” Rey inquires. “What are they all running around for?”

“Wish I knew. One of the suits spilled hot coffee all over my uniform a few minutes ago, and he didn’t even say ‘sorry,’” Finn recounts, pointing at his stained white livery. “We have a right to know what’s turnin’ everyone into a rude bastard, don’t you think?”

Rey nods, and Finn motions for her to cut in front of him.

“It’s kind of funny to watch,” Finn tells her, gesturing towards the swarm of chaotic agents. “Look—see?”

The two watch as several officials slam into each other, papers flying out of their hand and heads knocking together. Rey laughs lightly, moving forward every couple seconds so as not to hold up the line.

While observing the mayhem, Rey becomes aware of the fact that Dr. Hunt is slowly making his way toward the cleaners, looking stoic as ever. Rey is unsettled by the very sight of him.

Dr. Archibald Hunt is a six-foot-something, rawboned man in his mid-thirties. He’s got hair the color of an apricot, skin as white as milk, and his face is stained with a permanent look of disgust. The only shirt he seems to own is a black turtleneck with an uncomfortably tight-fitting collar.

Rey expects Hunt to engage in the usual haranguing—traditionally, it will start with, “We don’t pay you one-twenty-five a week to stand around by the cleaning carts and lollygag in the atrium all day.”

When the man is but a few feet away from the line, he clears his throat, demanding the undivided attention of every inferior in his presence. The cleaners fall silent, turning to face the official, waiting for instructions, or a tirade, or an announcement of some sort.

Dr. Hunt presses a hand to his slicked-back, orange hair, smoothing it down on the off chance that a lone strand has popped out of place, and then his beady eyes focus on the group before him.

“A moment of your time, please,” he addresses them all, his upper lip stiff. “Today, the First Order will be receiving an asset. I don’t want to overstate the matter, but this may very well be the most sensitive asset ever to be housed in this facility. As a result, you will all be on your very best behavior today. I expect no mix-ups and no mistakes.”

The man nods, adjusts his collar, turns, and marches away as if he hasn’t just sent the cleaners into a state of absolute disarray. The line erupts with a chorus of adrenalized I-knew-it’s and I-told-you-so’s, but Rey is too dazed to join in on the hysteria. She can’t help but picture that yellow-eyed, grey-skinned monster that her imagination conjured up, and she shivers.

The Devil, apparently, has arrived.

 

—————————

 

Now that the asset’s existence has been confirmed by one of the suits, everyone seems to have their own theory about it, including Finn the cynic. The suppositions range from plausible to utterly ridiculous—for example, Finn believes that the asset is not a creature at all, but a sample of anthrax from Fort Detrick that the American government plans to use against the Soviets. Others are saying it’s Bigfoot.

And the worst part? They’re expected to go about their workday as if they aren’t just bursting with curiosity.

Unlike the cleaners who made a beeline for the boiler room seconds after punching in, Rey and Finn _do_ attempt to fulfill their duties, but the work they do is more half-assed than anything. Their minds are occupied.

Rey is not only curious, but also stressed. The whole ordeal has put her on edge, fearful that the creature—or asset… whatever—will topple the building, just as Kaydel and Jessika said it could. If it has the abilities that they claim it does, it could kill everyone, herself included. But Rey doesn’t want to die… not yet, anyway. She hasn’t even found her parents yet.

Rey tugs at the tri-buns that adorn her scalp, feeling tense as ever. She looks a disheveled mess, her nails bitten to the quick and tendrils of hair falling messily around her face.

She and Finn have been stationed in the West corridor, just outside of room 327. Rey decides that this hallway has been neglected by those who frequent the boiler room because it’s absolutely filthy; the floor looks as if it hasn’t seen a mop in decades, and cobwebs grow larger and larger in easy-to-reach places.

Speaking of neglectful cleaners, a certain gossipmonger has pledged to spend the entire day above ground, scouting for her fellow boiler-room-dwellers. Jessika Pava would rather die than miss any newsworthy happenings, and so she sacrificed her wasted time in the basement for a little investigation. Unfortunately for Rey and Finn, Miss Pava has decided to cling to the pair like a leech. Wherever they go, she and her a-little-birdie-told-me stories follow.

In terms of discussing the asset, Jessika, of course, is being Jessika about it.

She dilly-dallies, the dry rag in her hand being used as more of a prop than anything else, and she keeps her eyes peeled for anything unusual.

“I heard it this morning,” she boasts to the two. “Didn’t see it, but I definitely heard it on my way in.”

 _Lie,_ thinks Rey, mopping the floor in silence.

“It’s feral,” whispers Jessika. “It was screechin’ and wailin’, and the sound was so piercing that I had to cover my ears. It’s not like any animal I’ve ever heard before.”

 _Another lie,_ Rey assumes.

“I swear, they’re hiding some Yeti in this facility,” she claims. “Don’t know what else could make a noise like that.”

“Oh, _that_ shrieking? That was probably just Finn,” Rey banters. “Some clyde spilled hot coffee on him earlier.”

“I did _not_ shriek,” Finn defends himself. “I grunted. In a very manly way, mind you.”

Rey laughs heartily, and Jessika huffs.

“I said it wasn’t human,” Miss Pava repeats. “At least, it didn’t sound like it.”

Finn ignores her comment, reaching up to collect the spider webs with the end of a besom. He collects so much web that it begins to look like a mound of greyish cotton candy has grown on the knob of the broomstick.

Just as Jessika arranges to open her mouth again and spew some far-fetched tale, leaden footfall resonates nearby, and the trio springs into action, attempting to look more occupied than they actually are. Jessika kneads the wall with her dry cloth, as if that looks at all natural.

The footsteps grow louder and louder until, eventually, it sounds as if an entire battalion is headed their way. Rey grips the handle of her mop tightly, praying that she hasn’t done something to get herself dismissed. An assemblage of suits is never good; either someone is getting axed, or some consular matter demands attention, or…

 _Or,_ Rey thinks, her eyes wide with realization, _they could be transporting the asset._

With every urgent footstep, Rey’s heart thumps faster and faster, and it begins to feel as if it may beat itself to the point of exploding in her very chest. The image of the glowing-eyed monster stalking down the hallway towards her shakes her to her very core. She watches the curve of the hall with bated breath, waiting for the beast to make it’s way around the corner.

When she does spot something, though, it isn’t a monster; it’s just a swarm of suits walking in rectangular formation. Behind them, Colonel Snoke emerges, Dr. Hunt trailing behind him like a lost dog, rambling about nothing. The Colonel, stone-faced as ever, holds a hand up to cease Hunt’s prating, and then calls out, “Right there is good,” to the rectangle of agents at his beck and call. The agents halt right where they are, which happens to be less than ten feet away from the three cleaners.

Rey visibly relaxes, inhaling and exhaling at a normal pace, no longer fearful. Yes, the suits aren’t exactly a sight for sore eyes, but she’d take their sternness and their deadpan faces over a nightmarish monster any day.

Snoke’s heeled Oxfords click against the floor tiles as he makes his way closer to his pack of trained seals. He sports a customary three-piece suit, but his is much fancier than those of the other agents—not gaudy in the slightest, but prim enough to clue one in on his high status.

With a languid wave of his hand, Snoke manages to part the rectangular sea of agents. Rey doesn’t dare to blink, and she not-so-subtly cranes her neck to get a better look.

The men step away, breaking formation, to reveal a large, horizontal receptacle of some sort. Appearing to be composed of a strong metal, possibly Erkinite, the repository on wheels has got heavily-tinted windows lining the sides of it. Rey is absolutely desperate to get a look at whatever’s inside, but the windows are so dark that, to do so, she’d have to get up close and personal.

 _The asset’s in there,_ Rey confirms her own suspicions. _It’s contained. It can’t hurt me._

She is positively buzzing with excitement, and nervousness, and something else. She can feel everything in her, every fiber of her being, drawing her towards this receptacle… towards the asset. If only it weren’t so heavily manned, she could tiptoe her way towards the receptacle and sate her curiosity.

“This asset,” Snoke begins, pointing a bony finger at the door to room 327, “is not to leave the confines of this room. If it manages to escape during its stay here, and it doesn’t gut you instantly, I’ll finish the job myself. Am I clear?”

The agents—or, more accurately, the watchdogs—nod quickly, wiping the perspiration from their foreheads.

“Good,” Snoke tells them, reaching into his pocket to procure a packaged clump of black taffy. “Hunt, you’re with me. The rest of you: stay put for a moment, and don’t let anyone near that holder.”

He pops the small mass of candy into his open mouth and crumples the wrapper, letting it fall carelessly onto the newly-cleaned tiles despite the fact that there’s a sizable garbage can not even three feet from where he stands.

 _Asshole_ , Rey thinks to herself, eyeing the wad of paper.

The second that Colonel Snoke and Dr. Hunt recede from view behind the steel door of room 327, the crowd of agents issue a collective sigh of relief. A momentary silence passes over the hallway, but it is soon replaced with hushed tones and cautious whispers as the men gossip shamelessly.

Rey’s senses seem heightened in this moment. She hears twelve different conversations at once, and none of them happen to be about the asset.

“... and Talex said that Snoke’s an Oxford man, but I don't know about that,” says one man, and another says, “That Hunt’s a bit weasley, ain’t he?” which is completely unrelated to the comment made by the first man, and a third man whispers something about break time. Their mumbles muddle together in the most unpleasant way, and Rey’s head begins to hurt.

Finn nudges her shoulder to get her attention, and Rey turns to him.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “I hate to admit it, but that doesn’t look like a sample of anthrax. The holder is much too big.”

“No shit,” Jessika cuts in. “Besides, didn’t you hear him? He said, ‘If _it_ escapes,’ and ‘If _it_ doesn’t kill you,’ which means we’re dealing with a living thing, like I said.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Finn dismisses her, disappointed that his theory didn’t hold true.

Rey is only half-listening to the two as she casts a longing gaze towards the repository, unable to deny its allure. It’s as if a string binds her to the receptacle and is being pulled from the other end, daring her to come towards it. It takes everything in her to remain just where she is.

 _If only I could just walk over_ , thinks Rey. _If only I had a reason to, then I could…_

Her eyes flicker down towards the thoughtlessly-discarded black taffy wrapper, which lies in a ball on the floor directly beside the receptacle.

Perhaps she _does_ have a reason to walk right on over.

With a white-knuckle grip on the mop handle, Rey inches forward ever so slightly, testing the waters. None of the suits even spare a glance in her direction.

“Rey,” she hears a harsh whisper from behind her—Finn, of course. “Where in the Hell do you think you’re going?”

“Uh,” Rey begins, turning towards Finn and Jessika, “I’ll be right back.”

Finn and Jessika speak at the same time, the former spitting out, “No you will not. Get back here before you get yourself canned,” and the latter cheering her on with, “Sneak a peek, will you?”

Rey propels herself another inch forward, and then another, all the while pretending to mop. She can hear Finn and Jessika bickering behind her, but that doesn’t matter to her in the slightest. It also doesn’t matter, for some reason, that she could be fired for sticking her nose in places it doesn’t belong. She isn’t thinking straight, and all she feels is the lure of the asset, like a sort of magnetic pull.

With the way the agents ignore her presence, she might as well be a ghost. They chat amongst themselves, either oblivious or just completely indifferent to the fact that a brightly-dressed woman is warily creeping towards the one thing they were tasked not to let anyone near.

 _They’re rather dense_ , Rey concludes, delighted.

Her luck only gets her so far, though, because, after a few more small steps, she hears a gruff voice call out, “Hey, you!” and she instantly freezes.

Thanks to the agent sporting the pumpkin-decorated tie— _it’s February, jackass_ , she thinks. _Halloween has passed_ —the crowd of suits is now solely focused on her, watching her squirm under their scrutinizing gaze.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jackass inquires, standing with his arms crossed.

Instead of giving a convincing and articulate answer to the question at hand, she points a shaky finger at the crumpled up wrapper lying on the floor and stupidly chokes out, “Trash,” like some cavewoman.

And, get this: the man looks her up and down, reaches a verdict, and says, “Carry on…” in the easiest way possible.

Rey can’t blame him for underestimating her, for not perceiving her as a threat—though, it is rather frustrating. Sure, she’s only five-foot-seven and weighs less than a hundred and twenty pounds, and, yeah, she has big, kind eyes and a cleaner’s uniform that might as well have “I’m poor and unimportant” printed on the front in golden block letters, but she is a weapon of mass destruction all by herself.

That’s exactly what Rey tells herself as she brushes past the agent with the holiday-themed tie, her head down, padding slowly towards the inconsequential wrapper. The men have returned to their previous state, shooting the breeze with their backs to the receptacle, and yet it still feels as if Rey is operating under close observation. Only five feet away from the asset’s holder, Rey begins to shake, afraid of what she might see through the tinted glass up close.

 _You are a weapon of mass destruction all by yourself. Whatever’s in there, it can’t hurt you. You are a weapon of mass destruction all by yourself. Whatever’s in there, it can’t hurt you,_ Rey mentally repeats the mantra over and over again, not believing herself for a second.

She warily creeps forward until the jettisoned piece of trash lies directly next to her off-white loafers, and, for a while, she just stands there staring at it, still as death. Rey glances back at Finn and Jessika, determined to get one last look at them in case the asset realizes that she is, in fact, _not_ a weapon of mass destruction all by herself, and that it, in fact, _can_ hurt her.

The two have since abandoned their cleaning tools, too occupied with watching the scene unfolding before them. Jessika goads her on, mouthing the words, “Get closer,” and gesturing for Rey to get on with it already. Finn looks, as she could have guessed, nervous beyond belief and a bit irritated by her impulsiveness, but, surprisingly, he seems impressed.

Rey releases a shaky breath, turning back ‘round and inching forward a little bit. She bends down, her fingers blindly searching for the black taffy wrapper as she turns her head, and…

And there it is.

The receptacle is smack beside her, and she levels herself with the tinted window. Still, it’s much too dark to recognize the species, but she’s able to make out the figure of the creature. It’s long, and broad, and Rey imagines it could do all sorts of damage even without its alleged superpowers, what with how large it appears to be. It isn’t still, either, which causes Rey’s eyes to widen; it’s alive, and it’s probably looking right at her now.

From inside, a blotchy shape—it’s similar to a Rorschachian inkblot—moves towards the window at a slow pace. Rey doesn’t dare to breathe, or blink, or move at all. She watches the inkblot approach the barrier of glass, and then, after it presses itself flat to the tinted window, Rey is able to determine exactly what it is.

 _It’s a hand,_ she thinks, astounded. _It’s a fleshy, pale, veiny hand!_

And, if Rey didn’t know any better, she’d say it were a human hand. It’s large, sure, but not irregularly so. It’s just a man’s hand, and the skin color is nothing like what she imagined it would be. Rather than being grey like a tired businessman's suit, the flesh is light and pinkish, like that of a living human being.

She’s got an overwhelming urge to reach out and press her palm against the glass so that it is adjacent to the creature’s, and that’s exactly what she does. Without thinking too hard about the situation or the consequences, Rey extends her arm and cautiously touches the glass, letting her fingers relax against it one at a time. The creature’s palm dwarfs her own, and Rey takes a moment to admire the size difference.

It feels, for a moment, just right.

It’s as if she were made to be here, kneeling before a great, big, Erkinite-forged repository with her hand pressed against the glass, offering something—consolation? Companionship? She hasn’t the slightest idea—to a creature that Jessika once referred to as “the Devil.”

Rey savors this feeling of belonging and ease, which are two things that she hasn’t had the luxury of feeling for a very long time. She hasn’t felt just right since… well, ever. So, it’s no surprise that, for a split second, Rey is unguarded enough to wonder, _Is this what home feels like?_

As it happens, however, good things hardly last—at least, not for Rey.

Without warning, the creature balls its hand into a tight fist and begins banging forcefully on the window. Rey is struck with panic, her breath hitching as she pulls her palm away from the glass instantly. A deep, tremendous, tormented wail seeps through the cracks of the receptacle, and Rey lurches backwards, attempting to distance herself from the holder.

She senses someone’s fingers digging into the back of her shirt, gripping the fabric tightly, and yanking her up to her feet. Expecting to meet the eyes of the man with the pumpkin-decorated tie—or far worse, Snoke himself—she is relieved to see a troubled Finn making an attempt to forcefully draw her away from the holder.

The creature’s wailing is so loud, so agonizing, that Rey has no choice but to cover her ears with flat palms, hindering her ability to hear anything else at all. So, when they reach the corner and Finn turns back ‘round to snap at her for her recklessness, the only thing Rey can make out is, “...tell you… listen to Jessika… could have been killed!” She gets the picture, though.

Snoke emerges cautiously from room 327, having heard the pained bellows of his all-important asset. Rey watches closely as he approaches one of the suits, appearing displeased in every way possible. The man crumbles like dry pastries beneath Snoke’s probing gaze, and Rey can just tell that he’s reciting every tedious detail in order to appease his superior. Her suspicions are confirmed when the man extends a shaky finger in her direction.

Rey resolves to admire the glossy floor tiles in order to avoid his beady, glacial eyes. Peering down at her discolored, worn loafers, she hears Snoke’s voice after a time, and she tries to piece together his words.

“...keep an eye… some girl… still doing here?” are all the bits she manages to catch falling from Snoke’s firm, formal maw. “And,” Snoke begins again, shouting now, “get those damned cleaners out of this hallway!”

Again, Rey gets the picture. Before the three can be abrasively escorted away by one of the suits, Rey, Finn, and Jessika turn, heading back the way from which they came. Jessika mans the cleaning cart as Finn guides a shaken-up Rey around familiar corners and hallways.

Rey thinks of the creature; she pictures its man-sized hands drawing back to strike at the impenetrable glass barrier, and she chastises herself for being so naive as to think that home is the Devil in a metal box.

 _I mistook curiosity for something else, something impossible,_ Rey attempts to rationalize the strange sense of belonging she felt when kneeling next to the receptacle.

Though, as Finn shepherds her around the facility, Rey begins to feel like a rubber band being pulled tighter and tighter with every step she takes, and she’s left with an emptiness that coerces her to glance over her shoulder, longing for something that she may have left behind in the West corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this took me so long. I've been writing little bits and pieces of this every day for a month now. I hope it's alright!
> 
> I ended up scrapping the prologue altogether. No amount of tweaking could make me like it, and I was ashamed of how shitty the writing was, so I'm just going to save the whole "police interrogation" thing for the epilogue.


	5. Lots and Lots O' Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey is still dazed from what took place the day before. She and Finn stumble upon something horrific.

**_February 18th, 1966_ **

 

Rey makes an attempt to complete the duties that she and Finn are meant to be sharing—really, truly, she does—but yesterday’s happenings presented her with a plentiful amount of information to mull over, and, in the past twenty-four hours, she hasn’t been able to do much of anything.

Today, her and Finn are stationed near the atrium, and the two have been tasked with pinning propagandist bills to every bulletin board that they come across—Snoke seems to think that it will boost employee morale if they’ve got a reminder of what their country is up against. 

Rey peers down at the flyers, her mind elsewhere. Hawkish, printed words peer right back up at her, accompanied by a few colorful pictures of exploding H-bombs.

**Only a strong America can prevent ATOMIC WAR!**

**Is this tomorrow? America under communism!**

**You can protect yourself from RADIOACTIVE FALLOUT! Get the facts.**

If Rey were less distrait, she’d nudge Finn’s side and say, “I don’t quite see how the threat of thermonuclear war could possibly boost morale,” to which he’d jokingly respond with something like, “Are you questioning Colonel Snoke’s methods?”

But she doesn’t feel like it, so she walks alongside him, listening to the rustling of paper as Finn attempts to tack up the fact sheet about communism. Percentage-wise, Finn’s hanged about ninety-five-percent of the posters. Rey’s only managed to pin up about three, and she had to stop altogether for some twenty minutes because she absentmindedly impaled herself with a thumbtack.

If Finn is cross with her because of this, he sure doesn’t show it. He whistles a merry tune as the two wander from one barren hall to the next, and he fills Rey’s empty, unhelpful hands with heavy stacks of agitprop art in order to make her feel as if she’s actually being productive.

“Snoke’s a fool if he thinks anything—especially this garbage—is gonna get those candyasses to strive for employee of the month,” Finn states. “The only thing this’ll do is give these agents a reason to lie awake at night and worry. Y’know what I mean?”

Rey nods her head, blinking slow, and she waits a couple moments before responding with, “Mmhm… bunch of candyasses.”

Finn turns ‘round to meet her gaze, and, after giving her a good, long look, he purloins the leaden heap of flyers from her hands. He places the stack on a stand nearby, and then he’s facing her once more, his threadbare loafers tapping against the dull-pigmented floor tiles, conveying impatience.

“What?” questions Rey, knowing damn well what.

He doesn’t say a thing at first. He just stands there, silent as winter, tapping his foot as he observes her.

“ _ What? _ ” Rey inquires more forcefully, her eyes narrowing into itty-bitty slits—she doesn’t particularly enjoy being under the microscope like this. 

“Tell me what’s the matter,” he insists, observing her unnatural, sunless expression. “Whatever’s got you like this—I’m assuming it’s because of what happened yesterday—tell me what you’re feeling, ‘cause there’s no use bottling it up.”

Rey’s struck dumb for a moment. She wonders if she could possibly tell him what she’s feeling right now, what she’s been feeling for the past twenty-four hours; she wonders if he’d understand—or, at least, try to make sense of—the longing that she feels for the asset that currently resides in the West corridor.

Yesterday afternoon, she had the luxury of riding home in a cramped, lichen-green, wood-paneled station wagon, which, Rey can admit, is loads better than riding the bus. Like always, Finn offered her a ride, and, had it been any other day, she would’ve politely declined, but she was too exhausted to reject the offer, so she climbed in. Finn explained that he bought the car cheap because of the fact that it didn’t have air conditioning or a working stereo, and so, to fill the silence that a broken stereo tends to leave behind, he whistled Etta James’ entire discography the whole ride home, and Rey managed to laugh when he tried to imitate the high notes.

She never spoke a word the whole time, other than to say, “Thanks for the ride,” upon arriving at her apartment complex. Finn must’ve known she wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened because he didn’t push her to say anything; he let her slouch against the car door like a cadaver, and she was grateful for that. 

Now that he’s here in front of her, demanding that she open up to him, Rey wonders if it would’ve been better to spill her thoughts yesterday when everything was so fresh in her mind. Now it’s all just a jumbled mess; her thoughts have been slept on, thought over, and rearranged so many times she can hardly remember the scene as it actually happened.

“I…” Rey begins warily. “I felt something yesterday.”

Finn gives her a look, like he’s urging her to continue, and Rey repeatedly wrings the fabric of her shirt to keep her hands busy.

“I felt a strange sort of pull,” she sustains, “towards the asset’s holder. Well, more accurately towards, um… the asset, I suppose.”

_ And I still feel it now, _ Rey thinks to herself, unwilling to say that much.

“You were curious,” Finn explains, like it's that obvious.

To this, Rey shakes her head, only a little frustrated. 

“No, no,” she clarifies, “It was more than curiosity. It was…”

She wants to tell him everything;  _ I wished, for a moment, that I was strong enough to break the glass so that I could reach in and touch its hand, _ she wants to say.  _ I wanted to crawl inside the receptacle and feel that sense of belonging for as long as the creature would allow it. _

She wants to tell him, and, courageously, she readies herself to do so, but before she can push the words from her throat, the two are startled by an unpleasant grunt coming from ‘round the corner.

Finn glances quizzically at Rey.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers uneasily.

Rey allows her mouth to snap shut, wondering if she’ll still have the courage to confess at a later time. She nods. 

The noise—it’s a cacophony of grunts, and wheezes, and gurgles—grows louder, more incessant, over the next couple seconds, and Finn takes a quiet step backward, tugging Rey’s linen shirt to guide her back as well.

Where the two hallways intersect, a disquieting thud can be heard, followed by the appearance of a blood-drenched hand, which smacks down pathetically against the floor fifteen feet away from the pair.

Unspoken thoughts hang heavily in the air between the two of them— _ Is it the asset? Has it escaped? _ —and Finn instinctively reaches down to take Rey’s limp hand in his own, intending to flee if the creature’s index finger even dares to twitch.

Rey, however, notices something, and she detangles her fingers from his before stepping forward cautiously to get a better look.

“Are you serious?” Finn cries incredulously from behind her. “That thing can kill you. Come on, Rey!”

_ The asset’s hand was large, and its fingers were thick, and its nails were short,  _ Rey recounts, ignoring Finn’s pleas, taking another step forward.  _ This hand is… unpleasant; human, but unpleasant. It’s slender and bony, and the nails are somewhat pointed, like that of an old man’s hand. _

Even soaked in the color red, Rey understands that this hand belongs to something other. She walks hastily the rest of the way, determined to find out who the hand belongs to and what sort of state they’re in— _ with a hand so bloody, _ thinks Rey,  _ it’s probably not a good one. _

Upon reaching the bend of the hall, Rey’s face drains of color and she jerkily waves Finn over, in shock. He hesitantly comes forth, meeting her at the corner. Once he sets his sight upon the crumpled figure, he nearly collapses next to it.

Colonel Snoke lies at their feet in a heap, his long, gangly body twisted due to his abrupt fall. Sanguine fluids saturate his three-piece suit, and the pool of blood inches forward until it stains the tips of Rey’s loafers.

At first, Rey is unsure where it’s all coming from; she takes a second or two to inspect the man’s body, hoping to find a gash big enough to account for this massive, red pool. Finn, though, locates the wound immediately, and he manages to lift a shaky finger, directing Rey’s line of sight towards the Colonel’s half-hidden face.

Across his brow, a lesion presents itself in the middle of his forehead, and it stretches all the way from his hairline to the start of his nasal bone. More noticeably, though, is the deep, nasty gash on the side of his face. His left cheek has been torn out, revealing tendons and muscles that skin  _ should _ be covering. It’s a hideous, gruesome sight.

Rey turns to say, “What should we do?” but Finn is no longer standing directly beside her. She watches his white-clad figure careen down the hall, calling for help, and decides that she’d better stay put.

Peering down at her feet, Rey watches her work shoes become utterly soused in the Colonel’s blood. She feels oddly detached from the situation—she decides that it’s because of the shock—and begins to think about the asset rather than the bludgeoned man with one foot in the grave lying before her.

_ It must’ve done this, _ she concludes.

Until the medics arrive, Rey stands over Snoke’s unconscious body and unwittingly imagines the asset’s fleshy, pale, veiny hand clawing its way under the Colonel’s face, ripping apart flesh, aiming for bone. 

 

—————————

 

About an hour later, Rey finds herself unwinding in the boiler room, passively inhaling thick clouds of nicotine and finding it rather hard to relax as a result. Finn, Rey figures, is upstairs, scouring off the neverending filth in the men’s bathrooms.

Finn took one look at her distant eyes earlier and said, “You ought to go downstairs for a while, Rey. You’re… not looking too well.” 

He’d shepherded her down to the underground as if she were a lost ewe, and then he proceeded to hand her off to Jessika, who vowed to keep an eye on her. 

Rey, now, sinks heavily into a bean bag chair—she wonders who, among all these negligent cleaners, was the one to blow their paycheck on a Sacco.  _ As if, _ Rey thinks,  _ any sort of furnishing will make up for the rancid smell of mildew and tobacco _ —and her eyes sweep the entirety of the room, searching for her supposed guardian. 

Jessika, it seems, has forgotten all about her; she surrounds herself with a swarm of eager cleaners, animatedly spewing information that may or may not be of any validity, leaving Rey to rot like old fruit in the corner.

After watching paint peel off the walls for forty-five minutes, she realizes she has nothing better to do than listen to the group regurgitate hearsay. She concentrates, attempting to separate lies and truths. 

“… and what of his face?” asks a male cleaner standing nearby. “We heard something ‘bout it being all sliced up.”

“Worse than you think,” Jessika shares, a false, sympathetic frown painted on her face. “My heart hurts for the Colonel. He’s nothing but flesh and bone now, a walking corpse.”

_ Liar, _ Rey accuses silently. 

Colonel Snoke, Rey’s been told, is expected to make a full recovery.

Of course, this information has been passed along by none other than Miss Connix, Jessika’s apparent sidekick, so one can only guess the credibility of it— _ I wonder, _ thinks Rey,  _ if Miss Pava is aware that Miss Connix’s story contradicts her own. Poor planning on their part, I suppose.  _

Rey feels a genuine sting of pity for the man Jessika now speaks of, and tries to imagine the Colonel at this very moment; in her mind, he’s lying on crisp, white clinic sheets, surrounded by chipper nurse practitioners, being force-fed from a Jello cup, feeling as though half his face has been torn off. She wonders what he’ll do when he gains access to a mirror and finds out that it has.

She instinctively reaches up to brush her fingertips across her cheek, calling to mind the yawning gash she’d seen staining the man’s visage.

“Full recovery,” of course, means he’ll be able to return to work in a month or so; it doesn’t mean his wound will miraculously heal. She’ll still have to prepare herself to stand in his presence with all that red, stringy muscle hanging out, and that hideous scar vertically splitting his face halfway down.

“If he was stumbling ‘round like you said—” interjects another man. 

“Oh, he was,” Jessika assures instantly. “Snoke was hobbling all over the facility before he finally collapsed; he made it all the way from the West corridor to the atrium, I hear. We might’ve run into him”—she laughs, but it briskly metamorphoses into a fit of hacking; it’s a smoker’s laugh if ever Rey heard one—“if we weren’t holed up down here all the time.

“But,” she starts again, “don’t take my word for it. Rey, over there”—she points a slender finger in Rey’s general direction, and all of her apostles turn their shaggy heads to observe the woman wasting away on a Sacco, allowing her body to be swallowed whole by the chair—“was the one who found the poor sucker. Right, Rey?”

Rey feels exploited, but she nods anyway. 

“See?” Jessika persuades. “We’ve got a firsthand account. That good enough for you?” 

Rey watches as the throng of cleaners begrudgingly reach into the pockets of their creased uniforms and forfeit various items to Miss Pava; the majority of them sacrifice a few cigarettes, but others relinquish their ownership of such items as Heath bars, and lighters, and pea green eyeshadow pans.

Jessika stockpiles the assortment of goods, tucking them into her pockets and, when she runs out of room, her bullet bra— _ That Heath bar, _ Rey thinks to herself,  _ will surely melt in there. _

The rumormonger disperses the gathering with a wave of her hand—a few cleaners make a move to decamp from the basement, but the better part of them linger nearby, not minding the boiler room’s permanent fustiness—and then crosses the unaired room, her yellowed loafers coming to a stop directly in front of Rey’s indisposed body.

“Scooch,” she orders, and Rey numbly obliges, allowing the Sacco to dip as it accepts Jessika’s weight. 

The lighter in Miss Pava’s pouch digs unpleasantly into Rey’s rib, but she doesn’t say a thing about it. In her peripheral vision, she perceives Jessika’s disconcerted gaze.

“What’s the matter with you?” she inquires, reaching into her pocket to procure a cigarette and a lighter. “You look dead, Rey. Was it really that gruesome?”

Rey turns a deaf ear to this question and, instead, formulates her own in response.

“It’s smart—the whole exchanging-gossip-for-gifts business,” Rey admires. “I figured you did it for attention. How, though, have you managed to keep people from catching on to the fact that you’re full of shit?”

Jessika chuckles lightly, and the cigarette dangling from in between her lips quivers as a result. “You’re funny, Rey. As if any of these dolts have the mental capacity to recognize a flat-out lie when they hear it…”

Rey considers this for a moment. She isn’t quite sure whether she should applaud the woman’s entrepreneurship or condemn her apparent lack of morals, but, after a time, she decides the former is best— _ who am I, _ thinks Rey,  _ to criticize her? _

Just as Jessika is about to offer Rey a square of her Heath bar, Finn enters, and Rey can’t help but notice that he looks rather bloodless in the face. Her lethargy subsides, and she instantly stands to meet him near the threshold.

She goes to say, “I’m feeling much better,” in order to remove herself from this roomful of chain-smokers and shoddy water heaters, but Finn beats her to the punch.

“I hope you’re feeling well,” he greets her, blanched, “because I’ve been told that Dr. Hunt is looking for the both of us.” 

That’s all he need say for Rey to abruptly turn and bid Jessika goodbye, white in the face. In moments, she’s scaling the steep staircase with Finn a couple steps ahead, and she’s wringing the fabric of her white livery to avoid the thought of Hunt’s gaunt figure hunting them down and dismissing the both of them.

 

—————————

 

Dr. Hunt’s nasal voice rings like a carillon in each narrow hallway that he passes through, a cautious Rey and Finn at his tail. He smooths his wiry, apricotish hairs back with his pasty palm, looking entirely neurotic.

Rey counts each step as she floats across the linoleum tiles, still somewhat staggered by this morning’s happenings—the memory of the weeping gash on the Colonel’s face slinks into her mind, and she wrings her linen shirt once more. Finn takes notice of her sudden stiffness, and his fingers tenderly grab hold of her calf-length skirt as a form of comfort.

“…and  _ I _ was the one who took measures to prevent this sort of thing from happening,” Hunt gloats. “Perhaps my panic button was not big nor red enough. I’ll wager, though, that Snoke wasn’t able to reach the button before the asset tore his face apart. Damned thing.”

Rey takes time to visualize the scenario Hunt has so graciously described: that mottled, grey being that infests her sweet dreams, no longer contained in its repository, wrathfully lurching towards the defenseless Colonel, shredding his skin with its razor-edged incisors—Rey’s mind has made a few additions to the asset’s potential appearance since the incident—and maiming the man before he could even cry for help.

Hunt steers the pair past the atrium, and, peering over the rail, Rey catches sight of the mindless agents lamely migrating from one hot desk to another, disoriented by the loss of their lieutenant colonel and his unending orders.

_ If the agents are doing nothing, and the cleaners are doing nothing,  _ Rey muses,  _ not a soul in this facility is doing a goddamn thing. _

For a moment, Rey delights in this revelation; she believes her dismissal will be easier to swallow if no other worker is pulling their weight. It’s rather cathartic to visualize the whole damned facility figuratively falling to ruin the second she steps out the front doors, to entertain the idea that she and Finn are the only competent members of the staff— _ your loss, _ Rey thinks spitefully. 

Upon realizing, though, that this will render her entirely responsible for Finn’s unemployment, her delight is washed cleanly away by the potent waves of nausea battering her stomach. She unwittingly pictures Mr. and Mrs. Tico standing before their homely, harborside cottage, peering down at an unfriendly eviction notice. Rey would rather die than be the cause of her workmate’s future misfortune.

Yesterday’s poor decisions are hastily catching up to her— _ the sight of a man’s hand pressed against glass, _ Rey decides,  _ was certainly not worth all this.  _

Pulling back from the rail, Rey spares a glance in Finn’s direction, fearing that she won’t be able to stomach his hopeful expression. Still, he keeps a fistful of her skirt fabric, holding onto her the way an ankle-biting child might hold onto his mother’s skirts in the aisles of a grocery store. He catches her eye and mouths the words “It’s going to be okay” as if he knows exactly what she’s panicking over. 

Dr. Hunt, none-the-wiser to the fact that the two cleaners have stopped to overlook the atrium, makes his merry way down the hall, monologuing to no one in particular in a self-aggrandizing manner. Rey patters after the scientist, and Finn follows, never once letting up on his grip.

The same sensation that overcame Rey after parting with the asset yesterday afternoon—she’d felt like the end of a rubber band being pulled taut—bubbles up in her chest now, only it’s quite the opposite. The rubber band is no longer being stretched uncomfortably tight; it’s relaxing, slackening with every step that Rey takes.

Her lax limbs and numb nerve endings croon sweet praises as her tattered, pink-tipped loafers stretch forward with each step. The distinctive humming revamps her entire perspective; rather than feeling as if she’s trailing Dr. Hunt like a lamb to the slaughter, she feels, now, as if she and Finn are being led towards the Elysian fields, escorted by a red-haired paragon of virtue.

“… and, while I’m sure you must be rather frightened by all this, I implore you to focus on the good rather than the bad. Think of it this way: in times of emergency, we turn to the two of you. Consider yourselves the First Order’s unsung heroes; you’re small cogs in a big machine.”—Rey recognizes the insincerity his tone houses instantly—“Be proud of that.”

At this point, Rey is quite fluent in government-ese. She inwardly translates his monologue to the best of her ability:  _ You’ve been tasked with something very distressing, but your fear is an inconvenience to me, so I’m going to pretend to flatter you in order to bend you to my will. _

_ Yes, _ thinks Rey,  _ that seems correct. _

Despite the scientist’s blatant lack of respect, she isn’t the slightest bit angry; his words provide her with a relief so gratifying, she no longer feels the need to hunch her shoulders under the weight of yesterday’s half-witted mistakes. Rather, she’s elated, and it’s due to the fact that she needn’t worry about her termination, nor Finn’s, any longer. Their jobs, apparently, are safe. 

She does find herself becoming increasingly curious about the task at hand, however. It’s obvious she and Finn missed a vital bit of intel while overlooking the atrium a few moments ago, and she can’t help but be bursting with the spirit of inquiry.

Her curiosity is sated, or, rather, violently quashed, the second she slinks around the next unsuspecting corner. The corridor’s fore is innocent and unblemished, but, further down the aisle, Rey can clearly see that the linseed-oil tiles are varnished with massive, dried-up ponds of brown, stretching quite a distance. That same brown paints the faded, earth-toned walls in disconcerting spatters, which stretch all the way up to the ceiling—though oxidized and discolored, it is surely blood. 

“My God,” Finn chokes out, looking as though he’s the histrionic heroine in a Hollywood horror flick.

Dr. Hunt, after introducing them to this gore, doesn’t even spare the two a glance. The man glances around insensitively, as if this hallway is personally inconveniencing him somehow.

“Yes, it’s hideous, isn’t it?” he bites out distastefully. “You’d think he’d be completely drained, what with all this bloodshed. But, no.”

The stale bloodstains, she can tell, make Finn weak with queasiness, and, with an unmissable gesture, she offers up her sturdy shoulder so that he may lean against her if need be.

It’s easy to see, now, that this is the same hallway the pair found themselves in just hours ago, back when the Colonel’s lacerated figure was crumbling and dissolving into the sanguine pools beneath him. Snoke has since been removed, but, for whatever reason, his blood was left to wizen, staining the hall beyond repair.

The discarded propagandist flyers Finn was holding this morning lie haphazardly on the ruined floor, and Rey thinks this might be the most disturbing detail of all. If she focuses on them for too long, a figment of past-Finn appears before her, papers slipping from his tremulous fingers and splashing on the ground, saturated with vermillion liquid, much like her loafers had been.

“Be quick about it,” Hunt orders impassively as the two observe their surroundings in a daze. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour…”—he reassesses the corridor— “or two. You’ve only got three hallways and a room to attend to; that should be plenty enough time.”

“What room is that again, Doctor?” Finn addresses the man by his title, collecting himself enough to feign forgetfulness.

Hunt speaks without feeling as he throws the answer over his shoulder, turning to flee from these unpleasant surroundings, perturbed by the scale of this mess.

Rey’s blood runs cold the second she is able to fathom his response.

“Room 327,” he informs dryly, disappearing ‘round the bend of the hall, “of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally gonna be one big chapter, but I split it into two parts. The next chapter will also occur on February 18th, 1966. Also, I renamed the chapters!


End file.
